


Truffle Season (Tom Ford tuxedos for no reason)

by okapi



Series: Clothes Make the Woman [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cunnilingus, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Film Noir, Frottage, Genderswap, Male!Mrs. Hudson - Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Roleplay, Sewing Machine Sex, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fem!Sherlock and Fem!John go undercover at a nightclub. For a case! PWP. Black tie porn. References to 1940's <i>noir</i> films and roleplaying with John as the hard-boiled private eye and Sherlock as the femme fatale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tussling with the most dangerous animal in the world, a woman

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this image](http://sapphoria.tumblr.com/post/77749989483).

_Rub, rub, rub. Squeak. Pat, pat. Rip! Ugh!_

“John?”

“Busy!”

_Rub, rub, rub. Squeak. Pat, pat. Rip! Ugh!_

“How would you feel about amplifying the degree of masculinity that you display publically? Temporarily, that is.”

John stopped what she was doing and parsed Sherlock’s words. Sherlock’s head appeared behind her in the bathroom mirror.

“People call me John. I’m wearing men’s underpants,” John gestured toward her cotton briefs. “Not butch enough for you?” she cracked.

_Rub, rub, rub. Squeak. Pat, pat._

Sherlock glared at her in the mirror.

“There’s a break in the exotic pet smuggling case. The ringleaders, the chief importer and distributor, are going to be at a nightclub called the Shangri-La tonight. Sort of a retro venue. We might blend in more if we went as a heterosexual couple.”

John shot her a disbelievingly glance.

“It’s for a case, John! For animals!” said Sherlock. She turned her mobile around to face the mirror and pouted dramatically.

John squinted at the screen. “You said exotic pets, Sherlock. I doubt anyone’s trafficking in [Labradoodles](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Labradoodle).”

Sherlock huffed. She swiped the screen and flashed the phone again. “Animals, John!”

John looked up. “This is about those [iguanas smuggled in socks](http://worldnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2014/02/04/22570225-rare-iguanas-hidden-in-socks-found-by-uk-customs-at-heathrow)? Hmmm. Harry had an iguana named Uncle growing up.” She shrugged. “You’re quite a few inches taller and a master of disguise. Why am I the man?”

“If I’m the man, then I don’t get to wear this,” Sherlock smirked as she held up a long evening gown of wine-coloured silk.

John whistled. “I thought the point was to not attract attention. Is that colour…?”

Sherlock answered, “Claret. Château Margaux, 1893. Give or take a year.”

John laughed.

“Of course, the fabric is too delicate to wear but the most minimal of undergarments. Wouldn’t want to mar the silhouette,” continued Sherlock, purring. She ran the fabric over her hand, highlighting the slit up one side.

“Alright, alright. Enough with the hard sell,” coughed John. “What will I be wearing?”

“It’s black tie,” said Sherlock. “I’ll pick out an appropriate dinner jacket for you.”

“It seems a little…contrived? Mildly ridiculous?”

Sherlock glared again.

“And you really think that I can pass for a man?” asked John incredulously.

“With a little coaching,” said Sherlock. “Low light, crowded setting…” she added.

John rubbed her temples and groaned.

“I’m probably going to regret this, but okay.” Sherlock squealed and tapped a rhythm on John's back.

John turned to face Sherlock and raised her hand, “One condition.” Sherlock stilled, expectantly. “If you’re going to be decked out as a slinky femme fatale,” she pointed to the dress, “Then I get to quote as much _film noir_ as I want—do my best Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, etcetera—without you rolling your eyes or huffing.”

Sherlock gave a conciliatory sigh, but her eyes danced. “Agreed,” she said. “Do I get to smoke?”

“No,” said John, “That’s the second condition—even more important than the first.”

Sherlock gave a true sigh.

“I wish you would’ve told me this earlier,” said John.

“Hmm?” asked Sherlock as she held John's lip down with one hand. She took the end of the plastic strip in between two fingers of her other hand.

“I would’ve had a nice furry mustache.”

_Rip!_

Sherlock tore the plastic strip quickly, leaving pink skin behind. Blonde hairs were embedded in the brown wax at the center of the strip.

_Ouch!_

“You know there oughta be a law against dames with claws!” croaked John, smiling at Sherlock’s retreating figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the song "Suit & Tie” by Justin Timberlake, featuring Jay-Z. The line about the colour of Sherlock's dress is my favorite scene of the Lord Peter Wimsey mystery _Have His Carcase_ by Dorothy L. Sayers, specifically the 1987 BBC TV version. Last line and chapter title are from the movie [_Detour_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0037638/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1945).


	2. The last stop's the cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of John's transformation.

Sherlock came up the stairs with a dress bag and several shopping bags.

“Let’s see.” John unzipped the dress bag.

“Tom Ford.” John smacked her head with her palm. “You bought an evening jacket—no wait,” she pushed the jacket aside, “an entire suit that costs a small fortune. This is very much outside the household budget for disguises, Sherlock. Don’t look at me like that; we _do_ have a household budget for disguises.”

“But John,” Sherlock whined, “you’ll look so smart, dapper even.” She fingered imaginary lapels on John’s oatmeal coloured jumper and gave a seductive twist of her lips.

“Build my gallows high, baby,” quipped John resignedly. Then, she locked eyes with Sherlock, daring her to react.

Sherlock bit her tongue and smiled. Then she went on, “I had some quick alterations made to further the goal: broaden the shoulders, hide the hips.”

“Sounds good,” said John. “What’s that?”

“Mustache,” Sherlock continued, opening an envelope.

“How _avuncular,_ is that the look that you’re going for?”

“No. How about a wig?” asked Sherlock. She hesitated, and John took the consulting detective’s hands in hers.

“Sherlock…you can cut my hair.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“It’s just hair. It’ll grow back. Or not. I’m not attached to it. Well, you know what I mean, not emotionally, not like you are to yours.”

“Am not! It’s just _transport_!” protested Sherlock. She ran a hand along her head, smoothing her tightly pinned tresses instinctively.

“It’s easy to talk about transport when God gave you a Lamborghini,” retorted John. “Not so much for us with a Morris Marina.”

Ten minutes later, blonde locks were piling on the floor around John.

_Snip, snip!_

John closed her eyes to avoid Sherlock’s penetrating gaze.

_Snip, snip!_

Soon, the buzz of electric clippers stopped, and the chemical smell of hair product filled the air. John’s hair was brushed with various implements and then with long elegant fingers.

“Done,” pronounced Sherlock. “Mirror?”

John shook her head. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” answered Sherlock, with a little bit of pride in her voice as she surveyed her work.

“Then so am I. Well, almost,” whispered John. She stood up and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, pulling her down for a deep, languid kiss. Sherlock ripped the plastic drape from John’s neck and let it fall. Tiny blonde hairs dusted both of them.

“Does Pygmalion have time for a mid-day snog?” asked John, guiding Sherlock backwards into the sitting room.

“For his Galatea, anything,” responded Sherlock. She sat back into the corner of the sofa and pulled John onto her lap. John buried her face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, nuzzling, as she unbuttoned the top three buttons of Sherlock’s blouse. She began kissing Sherlock’s neck in earnest, and Sherlock undid the rest of the buttons. John pushed Sherlock’s blouse and bra straps half-way off, binding her arms awkwardly to her sides. Then, she made love to the creamy orb of Sherlock’s left shoulder as if it were the only erogenous zone on the detective’s body. She licked and kissed and bit and rubbed her cheek against it. All the while, she ran knowing hands up and down Sherlock’s torso, reveling in the smoothness of her skin.

“ _John_ ,” groaned Sherlock.

John moved back along Sherlock’s neck, pausing to kiss reverently at the spot that she normally bit when she climaxed.

Sherlock wrested her arms free and cupped John’s head, urging her to linger. John obliged, licking the site of so many teeth marks; their shared landmark to raw pleasure. Sherlock hummed contentedly and ran her hand through John’s hair—well, what was left of it.

“The things you let me do to you,” said Sherlock in a soft, confessional tone as she fingered the short strands.

John sat up. “Sherlock, I quite like the idea of being Doghouse Reilly for a night, so do what you will—I’ll draw the line when I need to.” With one fingertip, she drew an invisible meridian down Sherlock’s forehead, nose, lips, and chin. Sherlock bit her finger sweetly.

“John Watson, I would like lay you out resplendent and devour you.”

John stretched her upper half slowly along sofa, slipping her legs over the armrest, and extended her arms over her head.

“I suppose that would be _nice_ ,” she teased with a casual air, arching her back. Her eyes caught the parcels on the small table. “What else did you get, Sherlock?”

“Shoes to make you much taller,” said Sherlock as she bent forward and shifted, planting a kiss on John’s sternum, “compression vest to flatten the chest, bow tie, braces, and this.” Sherlock reached for a box. When she leaned back, John straightened and they sat side-by-side. Sherlock opened the box.

John burst out laughing and tumbled from the sofa onto the rug. Sherlock’s mild alarm morphed into amusement. John cackled and rolled on the floor at Sherlock’s feet.

“You. Got. Me. A. Cock!” John exclaimed between deep breaths, trying to regain her composure.

“I didn’t know...” started Sherlock, chuckling as John swatted at her ankles. “I didn’t know how Method an actor you might want to be.” Her words ignited a fresh wave of giggling and flopping back and forth.

“Oh, _Sherlock_!” cried John, face flush with mirth and eyes shining with tears. She looked up at the consulting detective.

“You make me laugh ‘til I cry.”

Sherlock beamed back at her with a look that was the very definition of  _smitten_.

“No one else finds me half as amusing as you do, John.”

“Well, you said yourself, the world is populated with idiots. Give us a hand.” Sherlock pulled John up and she settled back on the sofa. They both looked at the contents of the box.

Sherlock launched into didactic mode. “This is a soft packer. Of course, there are hard varieties for sexual activity, and…”

“What, no Stand-to-Pee function here?” asked John, taking the device in her hand, turning it over.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.

John rarely had the chance to huff Sherlockian-style, so she took it.

“All kinds of people need to go to the doctor, Sherlock. And it behooves me to try to understand their lives and their issues.”

Sherlock nodded. “So?” she asked.

John sighed as she put the device back in the box. “Remember that line I mentioned? Well, I am on one side of it and that cock is on the other. Maybe you can fashion some sort of padding that will add some bulk and appropriate shape should anyone actually glance at my crotch, but is a little less…realistic.”

“Done,” said Sherlock matter-of-factly, closing the lid of the box and the discussion. “I’m sure I can find a use for it…”

“Good to know we have a cock around the place,” added John; laughter threatened to erupted anew. She took the box from Sherlock’s hands and tossed it on the small table. Then, she climbed back onto Sherlock’s lap, straddling her. They snuggled, slotting arms and heads and chests until the space between the two disappeared and they formed an artistic representation of an embrace, a sculpture carved from a single piece of stone. They kissed slowly, wetly, open-mouthed, until finally John pulled away and said, “I guess I should put this all together and start practising.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. John noted with small satisfaction that Sherlock almost seemed reluctant to return to the Work. _Almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John quotes the movie [_Out of the Past_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0039689/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1947). Doghouse Reilly is the nickname Humphrey Bogart's character gives himself in [_The Big Sleep_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0038355/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1946). Chapter title is from [_Double Indemnity_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0036775/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1944).


	3. A lot depends on who's in the saddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of John's transformation--with erotic interlude

John took the shopping bags upstairs and donned the ensemble. She came back downstairs and stood in front of Sherlock, opening the sides of the jacket and doing a slow pirouette.

“So?”

Sherlock was in her heaviest dressing gown, closed tightly around her. She gave John an appraising look from head to toe, nodding. Then, she closed the space between them. With John’s new shoes, they were nearly eye-to-eye. It was a novel sensation for each woman to kiss standing without bending to reach the other.

“Handsome,” Sherlock pronounced. John blushed. “But _that_ ”—Sherlock indicated the pinkness on John’s cheeks and the tips of her ears—“needs some work; let’s get you into character.”

They worked on John’s posture and stance, her walking and sitting. When Sherlock’s instruction failed, John fell back on her military training and experiences. She remembered one captain who always walked like his pants chafed and imitated his strut.

“Walk like _this_ ,” Sherlock held up a rolled sock and then shoved it down the front of John’s trousers, “is the most important thing in the world.” Sherlock went to the far end of the hall. John bent her head and hung her arms loosely by her sides. She hopped back and forth on her toes, like a prizefighter warming up.

“Walk like you’re entitled,” called Sherlock. John’s head was still down; she took a deep breath. “To what?” asked John, looking up.

“To [this](http://www.agentprovocateur.com/us-main-nav/nightwear/slips-babydolls/info/abbey-short-slip~cream), Johnny,” replied Sherlock in a husky voice, untying her gown and letting it fall to the floor. She was wearing a cream-coloured slip that just reached her thighs, lined with lace. The silk hugged every curve.

John gave a long whistle and marched down the hall.

Sherlock said, “I was just fixing some ice tea; would you like a glass?” Sherlock batted her eyelashes and ran her hand provocatively along her hip.

John gave her a wide, wolfish grin and replied, “Yeah, unless you got a bottle of beer that's not working.”

John pulled Sherlock to her and kissed her roughly. She felt the silk of the slip and gripped Sherlock’s arse hard. She quickly removed the evening jacket and hung it on the doorknob of Sherlock’s room.

When she returned, Sherlock cooed, “Johnny, I can make you feel so good.” She made a quick turn and wiggled her bottom against John’s sock-filled crotch.

John grunted. Without thinking, she bent her knees, but Sherlock’s hand shot out, stopping her. Sherlock tugged her back to standing.

John slipped an arm around Sherlock’s waist and spooned tightly behind her. She licked at the nearest vertebrae, thinking. She laced the fingers of one hand with Sherlock’s and then rubbed her nose back and forth between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. She thought some more. And Sherlock, well, she waited, proving that the consulting detective _could_ manage the virtue of patience when desired. Because, _this_ , this would not be rushed. John took a deep breath and growled in Sherlock’s ear.

“Gonna _take_ you, sweetness.”

Sherlock let out the breath she’d been holding and crumpled forward, caught by John’s arm like a trapeze wire.

“Yes, yes, _yes_!” Sherlock moaned like a B movie actress. A bittersweet smile flashed across John’s face, probably a fleeting notion that it was high comedy—considering the combined brilliance and bravery that occupied the ether of 221B—that two grown women could not simply _ask for what they wanted_. But it was only a flash because John had a cunt to fuck.

John snarled as she snuck a hand under the silk and grasped Sherlock’s breast. She pushed the hem of the slip up and tugged Sherlock’s lacy knickers down. She held Sherlock firmly against her and rut into Sherlock’s bare bottom clumsily.

“Bedroom,” Sherlock ordered.

_Smack!_

The consulting detective startled. John rubbed the redness that bloomed on Sherlock’s buttock.

“Topping from the bottom will result in _discipline_ ,” said John gruffly in her own voice. “Say the words if you want to stop, but that’s condition number 3 if you don’t.”

Sherlock turned her head and stared wide-eyed at her. Then, a coy smile bloomed on her lips.

“Sorry, Johnny,” she said meekly and pulled at her lip.

And John knew it was just a game, but how the words and the girlish gesture fueled her desire. She twisted Sherlock and pushed her. Sherlock’s back made a loud _thud_ against the wall. John gripped Sherlock’s jaw and kissed her savagely, with lips and teeth and tongue that brokered no compromise, that _took_ instead of gave. When John broke the kiss to look at her lover’s face, she saw pupils blown dark and a visage almost pained with want.

John nuzzled the swells of Sherlock’s breasts; “Let me see ‘em, baby,” she rumbled.

Sherlock wrenched the straps of the slip down. John kneaded Sherlock’s breasts with strong hands and then bent to lick each dark, hardening bud with a flat, broad tongue. She bit Sherlock’s nipples then sucked, pulling off sharply, letting each one leave her mouth with a lascivious _pop_. Sherlock squirmed against the wall and moaned; she pushed her knickers down, leaving them stretched across her thighs.

“Eager, are we? Catting for Johnny to fuck this sweet little cunt?” John held Sherlock’s hips still and whispered in her ear hoarsely.

“ _Yes,”_ keened Sherlock. John pulled the knickers back up to Sherlock’s protesting mewl and led her lover down the hall.

“If you aren’t dripping by the time I bend you over, there’ll be hell to pay,” menaced John as they moved to the sitting room. John guided Sherlock to the sofa. Sherlock faced away from John, with both forearms leaning on the armrest, one knee on the sofa and the other leg straightened to the floor. John smoothed a hand up Sherlock’s back, pushing her slightly forward, and then pulled her knickers down and off. She traced her middle finger around the edges of Sherlock’s cunt and then slipped the finger inside. Sherlock thrust down on John’s hand impatiently.

“John!” barked Sherlock frustratedly, “More!”

_SMACK! SMACK!_

“Last warning, Sherlock,” threatened John, removing her hand from between Sherlock’s legs, “I’ll leave you here like this to finish by yourself.”

Sherlock’s heavy breaths were the only sound in the room. She rearranged herself so her arms were on the sofa, face and chest down, arse up, presenting herself pornographically. Then, she whimpered.

“ _Please don’t leave me, Johnny_.”

John froze momentarily at the scene and rubbed her brow. The scent of Sherlock on her fingers hit her like a freight train, perhaps even harder than the visual before her or Sherlock’s words—which in and of themselves were a sucker punch to the solar plexus of her psyche. Without preamble, she plunged three fingers inside Sherlock and pumped them violently.

“Oh, oh, oh!” cried Sherlock, meeting her thrusts. John added a fourth finger, stretching her. Her hand cupped Sherlock from behind and her other arm steadied her as she bounced. With every push together, Sherlock righted herself more, until she was almost sitting, impaled on John’s digits. She trailed her own hand between her legs, but then suddenly stopped, looking back at John for… _permission_.

“Good girl,” John growled. “Yeah, play with yourself, let me watch.” Sherlock’s hand found its destination, rubbing slow circles. John stared, mesmerized, but then curled her fingers inside Sherlock and rocked her hand minutely.

“Yes, yes, YES!” shouted Sherlock. Then she stilled, dropping her hand from herself. She turned and wrapped her arms around John’s neck. They kissed gently; both struggling to regain themselves.

“Penge Bungalow,” uttered Sherlock faintly.

“Yeah, yeah, I need a breather,” agreed John in a weak voice, hiding her face in Sherlock’s neck.

“Yoohoo, girls! Post! Are you decent?” a male voice called from downstairs. They heard the sound of well-worn loafers trodding very slowly up the stairs.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” grumbled John as she stood up. She ran her hand through her hair carelessly, then remembered, with a cringe, just what was on the hand, and made a beeline for kitchen sink.

“Not yet,” smirked Sherlock as she scampered to retrieve her dressing gown.

When Mr. Hudson appeared, they both converged on the sitting room, much like characters on a stage: Sherlock from the hall, tying the sash of her garment and John from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel, which she threw to Sherlock. John smoothed her shirt and trousers.

“Rehearsal went well, I see,” said Mr. Hudson dryly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from [_The Big Sleep_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0038355/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1946). The dialogue that John and Sherlock quote in the hallway is from [_Double Indemnity_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0036775/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1944). Penge Bungalow is a nod to the Horace Rumpole mysteries by John Mortimer.


	4. Don't worry about the story's goofiness. A sensible one would have had us all in the cooler.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Hudson interrupts and a tiny bit of a domestic ensues.

 “So, headed to the Shangri-La tonight? Why I remember the original club. Let’s see it was 19…” began Mr. Hudson. John feigned interest, but when she heard a beep, she reached for her mobile on the table. She checked her messages. 

  
Sherlock was not even pretending to listen. She went through her post: examining a letter or two, tossing the journals in a pile, dropping most of it in the rubbish bin with a frown.

  
“Mmm-hmm. Fascinating. Well, that’s how we won the war, right?” murmured John at an appropriate pause. “Sherlock, we’re done here, for now, yeah?”

  
“Yes,” said Sherlock slowly; her eyes narrowed slightly.

  
“Sarah wants to talk to me about something. Going to pop ‘round to hers for bit.”

  
“Why can’t she _text_?” snapped Sherlock as John headed upstairs.

  
“She did, love. And now she wants to talk face-to-face. Not everyone prefers the coldest, most indirect method of communication. Won’t be long.”

  
Sherlock bristled and reached for her violin.

  
“I’ll leave you to your domestic. Please don’t squabble too loudly,” said Mr. Hudson cheerily as he retreated down the stairs. Neither woman heard him.

  
John re-emerged in her oatmeal coloured jumper and jeans. She grabbed her jacket.

  
Sherlock made a noise that one part snort, two parts disdain, with a dash of bitters, served very cold.

  
“Problem?” asked John, imitating her lover’s voice. She turned back from the top of the stairs and advanced on Sherlock. 

  
“No,” Sherlock huffed as she put the violin under her chin and pulled the bow across the strings. She turned her back to John.

  
“Right, because if you were feeling anything as stupid as _jealousy_ for a female friend—for whom…”

  
“With whom,” Sherlock corrected; she began to play a dirge.

  
“—for whom I work and with whom I had one of the most disastrous half-dates of my life thanks to _your_ infernal meddling and penchant for attracting a United Nations assortment of villains—then as a licensed medical professional I would have to test you for stroke because you would have to be suffering from a lack of blood to your brain to forget in the last ten…”

  
The music stopped. “Seven. And a half.”

  
“Seven and a half minutes how much I love you, want you, and the ridiculous fact that _I have your come in my hair!_ ” roared John. “A more primitive form of staking your claim—you cavewoman— _does not exist!_ ” She gave Sherlock an exasperated look. Sherlock finished playing with a flourish and returned her gaze. Silence descended on the flat, and then they both burst out laughing.

  
“You can’t laugh, or even speak, tonight, John. It would take a great deal of testosterone to drop your voice to the appropriate register.”

  
“Even my best Humphrey Bogart?” John teased.

  
“Especially your best Humphrey Bogart.”

  
“That’s alright. I’ll be the strong, silent type,” John winked. She gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek and shuffled down the stairs, calling back in a posh sing-song tone.

“Darling! Beast! Angel! Vixen!”

 A romantic sonata floated down to the pavement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my stories take place within the same genderswapped Alternate Universe and the Sarah Sawyer plot thread starts with this fic and--for now--ends with [Milk](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1231210), but I have a couple of future fics in mind to fill out the arc.
> 
> Chapter title is from [_The Maltese Falcon_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0033870/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1941). John's endearments down the stairs are another quote from Dorothy L. Sayers' _Have His Carcase_.


	5. Treadle lightly on my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sews John a cock. Insecurities flare.

It was turning dark when John returned to 221B with cartons of Chinese food. She sprinted up the stairs, but saw the flat was dark. She put the food on the kitchen counter and then heard a tell-tale whirling noise from downstairs. She went down and knocked at the door of 221A.

No answer. She pushed the door open slowly.

“Sherlock? Mr. Hudson?”

Still no answer.

She entered the flat, stepping quietly. The flat was neat, but empty. Then, she saw a light on in the second bedroom. She went to the door and saw Sherlock seated at a [Singer sewing machine](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Singer_sewing_machine.jpg).

“Sherlock,” said John with a smile.

Sherlock took the straight pins out of her mouth. “Oh, hullo,” she replied, not looking up from her project. She pumped the treadle with her foot and guided the fabric under the presser foot. She finished stitching and then pulled a bundle away, snipping the threads with scissors.

“This,” she proclaimed, “is your cock.”

“Ha!” John laughed. “Thank you. Where’s Mr. Hudson?” John looked down the hallway.

“At his sister’s for the weekend. He found out about Mr. Chatterjee’s wife in Doncaster.”

“Oh. Too bad. We’ll have to be extra nice to him when he gets back.”

“Why?”

John let it go.

“You know usually you’re surrounded by all kinds of technology, your ubiquitous mobile, your computers, your scientific instruments, your gadgets. I’m quite in love with the sight of you behind this antique. I confess that I often forget you have this particular skill. You could be quite the seamstress if you wanted.”

“Shall I take up a trade, Mummy?” asked Sherlock sarcastically, fiddling with a pair of pinking shears, pointedly not looking at John.

“Sherlock…” began John.

“ _What did she want?_ ” asked Sherlock, pushing back her chair. Before she could rise, John plopped in her lap, straddling her.

“Look at me, please.”

Sherlock did, and John was stunned. She was upset, honestly upset. Well, Sherlock’s version of upset, which to most people would appear as granite stoicism. But John was not most people.

Sherlock’s question hung in the air. It would not be repeated.

“Sarah’s going on a medical mission to South America and wants me to take over the surgery for two weeks. That’s all.”

“And what took 98 minutes? Not the Chinese food, that wouldn’t account for more than 23 minutes.”

“I said take over the surgery, Sherlock, not just cover her shifts. There’s management and staffing responsibilities that go way beyond diagnosing runny noses and stiff backs. It would be a commitment--but with appropriate compensation.”

“So you agreed,” scoffed Sherlock.

“I said,” argued John, “that I would speak with my _partner_ , and get back to her.”

Sherlock threw the pinking shears on the sewing table with a metallic _clunk_.

John wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s waist and bent her chin to her chest. She gently butted the top of her head into Sherlock’s nose.

“ _Yours_ ,” said John.

Sherlock rubbed her face into John’s short tresses and breathed deeply.

“ _Mine_ ,” she answered, relaxing and enveloping John tightly in her arms. Sherlock pushed John’s head back and kissed her lips tenderly. She opened her mouth in invitation, which John wholeheartedly accepted, plunging her tongue inside, tasting her. When satisfied, John outlined Sherlock’s lips over and over with her tongue, pausing to suck each between her lips and nip with gentle teeth.

“Quite the seamstress, hmmm?” purred Sherlock between kisses.

“So you were listening.”

“I always listen to you, John. Might a seamstress and the world's only consulting detective persuade you to temporarily part with this crime against fashion?” Sherlock nodded to John’s jumper.

“She could _try_.” John grinned. Clever hands slipped under John’s jumper and loose vest, caressing her skin and pulling her closer. John hummed contentedly and looked down. Sherlock was in bare feet, wearing her blue dressing gown over a plain white shirt and black trousers. Even so simply attired, John was struck by her beauty. And by comparison, she felt like a gargoyle, like the little creatures that usually gotten eaten or stomped on by the majestic dragon in storybooks. She stiffened and curled her arms to her chest instinctively, pushing Sherlock away. Knowing she was telegraphing her insecurity to the most observant woman in the world only made her feel more idiotic and _broken_.

She made to stand up, mumbling, “There’s Schezwan chicken and some of that…”

Sherlock caught her around the waist.

“John, would you like to hear about the physics of a sewing machine?” asked Sherlock.

John stopped short in frank surprise and said distractedly, “Umm, okay.” She sat back on Sherlock’s lap, turning to face the machine. It was an oddly comforting scene: the _whoosh-whoosh_ train-like rhythm of pumping treadle, the spinning of the balance wheel, and the rise and fall of the threaded needle.

She relaxed, leaning back into Sherlock. Even through her hideous jumper, she felt Sherlock’s smile.

“Let’s begin with the concepts of _energy_ …and _work_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has taken an odd detour. Next stop: sewing machine sex.


	6. Whether other people really teach us anything is a question, but they do sometimes give us impulses and make us find out for ourselves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of the sewing machine sex interlude

“ _There are forces that act on the balance wheel, much the same as on the band wheel_ …”

Sherlock lectured in a matter-of-fact, yet dulcet, tone. She turned the balance wheel and drew diagrams in the air, describing the experiment. John listened. She slumped between Sherlock’s arms, resting her head beside the detective’s.

“… _this proves a very important law of mechanics, at equilibrium, the sum of moments about a common center is zero._ ”

Sherlock punctuated this statement with a kiss to John’s neck. John smiled.

“ _Work is done whenever a force moves its point of application in its own direction_ …”

John turned. Sherlock kissed her cheek. John snuggled closer to Sherlock.

“ _In order to move, of course, it must overcome resistance…the effort to overcome that resistance can be measured_...”

Sherlock circled John’s waist with one arm and continued to gesture, illustrating her points, with her free hand.

“ _Friction is the resistance that must be overcome in moving one surface over another…”_

John pulled her jumper over her head and tossed it on the floor. Sherlock smiled and kissed her neck again.

“ _Efficiency is the ratio of the work done upon the resistance to that done by the effort…”_

Sherlock rubbed where John’s vest tucked into her jeans. John pulled the vest free, and Sherlock slid her hand beneath it. The hand caressed with careful precision poorly camouflaged as idleness, slipping lazily underneath the waist of John's jeans and tracing her navel and hip bones.

“ _The efficiency of the machine can be increased by reducing the forces of friction to negligible quantities, by lubrication or other means_ …”

Sherlock licked John’s neck. John hummed and pulled the strap of her vest down until the loose white cotton hung on a nipple. Sherlock licked her bare shoulder. Sherlock lifted two fingers to John’s mouth. John groaned and sucked, bathing them in excess saliva. Through the vest, Sherlock wet John’s nipple with her fingers, teasing the bud until it swelled and hardened and clung to the moist fabric.

“… _for_ _the transmission of energy from one wheel to another to be efficient, the belt between the balance wheel and the band wheel must fit tight so as to develop as much friction as possible between the belt and the wheel, but not so tight that it will develop friction between the axle and its bearings_ …”

Sherlock’s hand at John’s waist dipped lower; her fingers skimmed the elastic of John’s pants. John whimpered. She stood up and unbuttoned her jeans. She settled back on Sherlock’s lap, facing her.

“ _The mechanical advantage of a machine is the advantage in speed, direction or effort gained by using the machine_ …”

John ground her pelvis into Sherlock’s with slow circles. She grunted. Then, she pushed the sides of the jeans apart. She gave several hard, quick thrusts, and whined. She twisted her hips and tried again, but the angle was even more awkward and the fit more uneven.

“ _The mechanical advantage of the sewing machine is a gain in speed_ …”

Sherlock put a firm hand on John’s waist. She took the bundle from the sewing desk and rammed it down the front of John’s underpants. Then, she shoved her hands down the back of John’s underpants and clutched her buttocks. She guided John’s hips in an up-and-down motion, wedging the small, firm bundle between them. John’s surprised frown gave way to wide eyes. She gasped as a familiar honeyed warmth kindled inside her.

“… _which means that for every to-and-fro motion of the treadle, the needle moves_ …” Sherlock pumped the treadle. A steady rhythm filled the room.

_Whoosh, whoosh. Whoosh, whoosh. Whoosh, whoosh._

“Oh, _Sherlock_ ,” whimpered John. John wrenched her vest up and pressed her bare midriff to Sherlock’s clothed one. Sherlock’s fingers gripped her buttocks fiercely. In the morning, John would flinch at the marks left; but in the moment, she reveled in the force, in the effort, in the power of her lover’s brilliant hands to coax the elusive sweetness from its hiding place. She held on tightly as they rocked to the tempo Sherlock set with the treadle.

Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, “… _the needle moves_ … _up and down_ … _one_ ”

“ _Two_ ,” moaned John.

“ _Three_ ,” said Sherlock. John sought Sherlock’s neck with her mouth, placing sloppy kisses against her ear, clavicle, and shoulder. She did not see the grin that lit Sherlock’s eyes like pyrotechnics.

“ _Four!_ ” cried John, biting flesh between her teeth. She ground against Sherlock for a minute longer, each thrust weaker and slower until she stilled, breathing heavy.

Sherlock released her hold and wrapped her arms around her companion.

“Thus, giving an advantage of four,” concluded Sherlock with raw satisfaction.

“Extraordinary,” said John. She kissed Sherlock.

“Indeed.” They held each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is quoting [_The Mechanics of the Sewing Machine_](http://books.google.com/books?id=chkLAAAAIAAJ&lpg=PA2&ots=u1668rkYVD&dq=mechanics%20of%20the%20sewing%20machine%20monograph%205&pg=PA1#v=twopage&q&f=false) by the Singer Sewing Machine Company (1914) and [_Physics_](https://archive.org/details/physics04twisgoog) by Mann and Twiss (1910). The chapter title come from the former.


	7. Moving the eye of the needle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the sewing machine sex

John broke the long silence.

“Would you…umm…that is…never mind… _shit!_ ” mumbled John. She cringed and uncurled her arms from Sherlock’s shoulders, still hiding her face in Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock placed her hands at John’s temples, silencing the angry wasps of her lover’s thoughts, and raised her head. They kissed slowly; Sherlock broke away and nodded.

John stood up and took off her jeans and pants. She perched on the edge of the sewing desk, balancing her feet on either side of Sherlock’s chair. The cold metal of the machine touched her lower back. John gripped the top of the sewing machine as she lifted her hips. Sherlock spread John’s thighs, exposing her, and pressed one kiss below her navel.

“Before tonight's charade starts, I want something _real_ …something oh-so- _not_ gender fluid,” said John.

“It’s for a case, John. I would not wish you _fundamentally_ …anything other…than what you are.” Sherlock spoke into John’s skin, but looked up at her reply.

“Well, that makes one of us, Sherlock. Every day, I want to be fundamentally different: quicker, stronger, more resourceful. I want to be more helpful to you, to the Work, to everyone.” John shook her head ruefully.

Sherlock opened her mouth and closed it. Twice. Finally, she said in a clipped tone,

“I recognize that now would be a most auspicious moment for me to make some sort of florid statement about the depth and measure and quality of my… _appreciation_ …,” Sherlock winced at her own word, “…for your presence in my life…and your presence in my _bed_ …”

John put fingers to Sherlock’s lips; Sherlock kissed them.

“Show me. Show me how much you love me.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and leaned forward.

“Willingly. Wantonly.”

In one fluid motion, she opened her and covered her clit with her mouth. Wet heat radiated through John’s body. It was a sensation at once alien and welcome.

Sherlock didn’t move; neither did John. John struggled to form coherent thoughts, and words, to ask for what she wanted. To _know_ what she wanted. _To hell with it._

_This was Sherlock._

This was Sherlock between her legs, this beautiful creature bent in adoration, touching her.

“ _John.”_

It sounded like a prayer. Sherlock laced the fingers of one hand in John’s. John squeezed.

Sherlock sucked gently, and it was _glorious_.

John found a couple of words.

“ _That. Yes.”_

She gripped the sewing machine tighter as Sherlock increased the pressure against her. She was throbbing, aching.

Minutes later, Sherlock sat up; her mouth glistened. John was reminded of a lioness at a kill.

John knew that she would not remain comfortable under Sherlock’s scrutiny so she closed her eyes. On impulse, she tore off her vest. There was no artifice, no costume, no script, no character. She was just a woman, laying herself bare for her mate. That was what she had been seeking; the tendrils of pleasure that were coiling and uncoiling inside her—well, they were just embroidery. Both women knew that.

“ _John_.”

John let her observe and catalogue and record and archive.

The question was simple.

“ _More?_ ”

“ _Yes!_ ”

Sherlock curled her arms under John’s thighs and hooked John’s legs over her shoulders. She lifted John’s hips. John moved her hands for better stability as she shifted more weight onto Sherlock. Her heels rubbed the silk of Sherlock's dressing gown.

Sherlock opened her and pressed her tongue inside.

“ _OH!_ ” A hollow groan filled the small room.

Sherlock’s warm, wet tongue was probing her, tasting her. With each pass, Sherlock thrust deeper, reaching towards John’s core. John felt her rational mind ebbing. Without consideration, she pushed frantically against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock held John’s lower half tighter and met her lover’s urgency with slow licks of a wide flat tongue from cunt to clit. John’s breathing slowed in time with Sherlock’s movements until they both stopped. She gave two quick taps to Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock gently lowered her feet to the floor. John stood in front of her lover, naked, feeling quite vulnerable until she saw how Sherlock trembled. She curled her limbs around her lover and stroked her hair slowly.

Time passed, and Sherlock stilled.

“I might ask for… _that_ …again,” said John into the top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s voice returned. “Not often, I hope.”

John backpedaled, “Oh right, yeah, well, I meant…”

“Once an addict, John. I would seek my tongue in your cunt on a near-constant basis. The criminal classes of London would rejoice and run amok. Think it through.”

The two women grinned at each other.

“Okay, then, just special occasions: your birthday, my birthday…”

“[Elias Howe](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elias_Howe)’s birthday…”

Sherlock pressed her mouth to John’s heart as the army doctor’s snickering turned to full-bellied laughter.

A high-pitched gurgling stopped John short.

“When is the last time you ate, Sherlock?”

Sherlock smirked and kissed her; John tasted herself on Sherlock’s lips.

“Really, John, your powers of observation are much worse than I thought…”

John blushed and cleared her throat.

“Actual nourishment, Sherlock.”

“One can’t live on pussy alone, hmmm? But has anyone actually _tested_ that claim, John?”

John rolled her eyes.

“If my stomach is rumbling, I don’t want to even contemplate yours. There’s no telling what the night will bring.  Don’t look at me like that. C’mon.” John reached for her clothes.

They bickered all the way up the stairs.

 

 

Three hours later, John was pacing. She heard a squeak and turned to see Sherlock leaning in the doorframe.

The [wine colored gown](http://www.aliexpress.com/item/New-Arrival-Miranda-Kerr-Zuhair-Murad-Wine-Color-Chiffon-High-Thigh-Slit-Plunging-Neckline-Evening-Gown/1057980927.html) had a plunging neckline and slit high up the left leg. Sherlock’s hair cascaded in dark, lustrous curls to her shoulders.

“Ready?”

John nodded.

“All those years…” said John, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder before she draped a fur stole around her, “…how could I have known that murder could sometimes smell like Chanel No. 5?”

Sherlock smiled.

“After you,” said John.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled story. Next episode: the club. Finally!
> 
> Elias Howe is an American sewing machine pioneer, who--among other things--was the first to design a sewing machine with the eye of the needle at the point; chapter title is a reference to this.
> 
> John's statement at the end is a play on the line from [_Double Indemnity_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0036775/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1944): "How could I have known that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle?"


	8. Sounds like a cheap novelette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of the club. The beginning of a case plot worthy of a [Scooby Doo](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scooby-Doo) cartoon.

“There isn’t anything here, Sherlock,” said John after paying the taxi driver. There was no sign, no lights, no clubgoers milling about on the pavement, and no taxis—save for the one they had arrived in, speeding away. The street was desolate and quiet.

“This way,” said Sherlock. They walked half a block. John’s hand at the small of Sherlock’s back snaked protectively around her waist when Sherlock led them down a narrow alley. They reached a door, and Sherlock pushed it open. They walked down poorly-lit stairs to another door. Sherlock knocked three times. The sound echoed. A small window at the top of the door slid open with a rusted squeak and then closed. The door opened.

Sherlock and John queued with a dozen couples in black tie finery. John caught glimpses of the interior when the man with the clipboard pulled back a curtain to allow entry.

If outside had been 1940 London, inside was 1950 Havana. Large green ferns and bright tropical flowers. A glittering stage with dancers shimmying to a Latin beat. Waitresses with trays of drinks held-high, twisting through the crowd. Scantily-clad cigarette girls and flower girls and photo girls meandering. The blinding flash of a camera. Laughter, the clinking of glassware, shouts.

When they reached the front, Sherlock said,

“Dr. and Mrs. Calloway.”

The man flipped pages on his clipboard and opened the curtain.

“Calloway?” asked John as they pass through.

“Why? Did you want to be Irish?”

 

The dancers were taking their bows when Sherlock and John surveyed the scene. Couples filled the dance floor as the band started up again. The dance area was flanked by round tables, some with parties of four or more, many with just couples. There were wide, flat staircases leading up to second and third tiers with more tables that overlooked the dance floor. A long bar lined the far wall of each level.

“Up there will be our best vantage point,” said Sherlock. John nodded.

“I want to check this,” said Sherlock, holding up her stole.

Behind the counter was a tall, beefy, pink-faced man with a head like a bucket that sat directly on his shoulders. John slanted her head down and turned to lean back on the counter, facing the crowd. In the reflection of the glass counter, John could see the man smiled at Sherlock. He took the fur piece and wrapped it around the neck of a wire hanger. He handed Sherlock a ticket.

“Thank you…. _Kurtz_ ,” cooed Sherlock, leaning forward and tipping the man’s nametag with her fingernail. He openly leered at her cleavage and threw an oafish smirk at John.

  

They made their way through the crowd.

“I’ll get us drinks; you find us a good spot,” said John.

 

“Mojito? Really?” asked Sherlock as John handed her a glass. She was seated at a small table for two on the top tier balcony.

“When in Havana, Mrs. Calloway,” said John.

“Then, why don’t you have one?”

“Rum? Uck!” John made a face. “Cheers!” She held up her whiskey.

“Cheers, Dr. Calloway,” said Sherlock sarcastically. Their glasses clinked. “We’re looking for two men, Harry Lime, the importer and Holly Martinez, the distributor. They’re supposed to meet here tonight to discuss a new shipment of animals.”

They sipped their drinks, listened to the music, and watched the crowd.

After a while, John said, “You know what strikes me?”

“Probably.”

“The contrast between men and women. All the men in here, myself in included, are striving to look as uniform as possible. Black evening jacket, black bow tie, white shirt, and black trousers. If I look like every other bloke in here, including the barman and the waiters, then I know I’m doing it right.”

“And the women?” asked Sherlock.

“Just the opposite. Everyone of you is trying to outdo the next, like peacocks with showing their plumage—striving to be the most brilliant bird in the room.”

“Technically the peacock is the male—“

“Shut up, Mrs. Calloway.”

“Oh, so you’re _that_ kind of husband, Dr. Calloway.”

“As I was saying, each trying to outshine the other. Look at the colours. The sequins and the jewels and the _skin_ …” John’s eyes followed a pair of round breasts threatening to burst from an emerald green bodice as they passed by. Sherlock kicked her under the table.

“You _are_ that kind of husband, Dr. Calloway,” grumbled Sherlock into her drink. John squeezed her hand affectionately, and they went back to their surveillance.

Sherlock broke the silence.

“You’re interesting, Dr. Calloway.”

“How’s that, Mrs. Calloway?”

“You’re never jealous.”

“Not entirely true. If Irene weren’t dead, I’d kick her teeth in.”

“You’re almost never jealous. That man,” Sherlock nodded to the entrance,” was ogling me, I flirted back, and it didn’t bother you.”

“Mrs. Calloway, I assume whatever you were doing, it had some purpose related to the case. As for him, I really can’t be jealous of the biggest, ugliest, most inept coat check girl that I’ve ever seen. If he--or anyone else--finds you attractive, well, I can't fault their good taste, can I? Being jealous really isn't my nature; being protective, however...”

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward. John took her hand again and kissed it softly.

“I love you, Mrs. Calloway. And my prime directive in loving you is to keep you _safe_ , to do my best to protect you from all kinds of threats, those without,” John made a gesture encompassing the room, “and the even more insidious ones within.” She pointed to Sherlock’s head. “I am not jealous of Irene because she was your girlfriend; I hate her because she was a _bad_ girlfriend.”

“You think she meant to harm me.”

John shot back angrily, “I _know_ she harmed you.” She dropped Sherlock's hand and leaned back.

“Prime directive, hmm?” Sherlock took a sip of her drink. “Wonder what mine is?” She scanned the crowd below.

“To keep me _yours_.”

John said it so quietly that it was almost inaudible over the music and the din of the crowd. _Almost_.

They locked eyes, and for a brief moment, John thought she could see into the very soul of Sherlock.

“Think I don’t know that you dream about me pinned under glass like a butterfly?”

Sherlock flushed and looked away. She took a long sip of her drink.

“You’re _interesting_ , Dr. Calloway.”

Then, her face changed.

“Inept.”

“Hmm?”

“You said he was the biggest, ugliest, most _inept_ coat check girl that you’d ever seen.”

“Well, he didn’t hang the stole right, did he?”

Sherlock looked at her.

“Ho, ho, HO!” cried John. “Please, please, love! Take our photo!” John beckoned to a girl with a large camera around her neck.

“Sure.”

“Me and the missus.”

“Say ‘Cheese’!’”

_FLASH!_

It would be one of John’s favorite mementos: a black-and-white photograph of her grinning like the Cheshire cat and Sherlock with angry, furrowed brow and squint eyes —like a cat in the bath.

“I need a souvenir of the one time in their entire marriage that Dr. Calloway pointed something out to his proper genius of a wife.” John paid the girl for the photo and put it in her inside jacket pocket.

“Out with it,” hissed Sherlock.

“You probably didn’t catch it because you’ve not in the habit of hanging up your own clothes…”

Sherlock growled impatiently.

“Alright, alright, you would never put a fur stole on a wire hanger, never wrap it around like this,” John swirled her finger, “with the fur side in. You would hang it carefully, fur side out, long ways on special hangers for stoles. Furriers have them.”

“Maybe they didn’t have special hangers,” argued Sherlock.

“A fancy place like this,” said John. “They’d have them.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Not really, but I used to _know_ a few girls who did,” she raised one eyebrow and teased, “Not a representative sample, of course, but…”

Sherlock kicked her again. Then, her eyes caught something down below.

“There’s Lime,” she whispered. “Let’s go down a level and see if we can spot Martinez.”

“After you, darling,” said John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the names, Sherlock's quote about being Irish, and the chapter title comes from [_The Third Man_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0041959/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1949).


	9. Next time we'll have a foolproof coffin.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the club.

“There’s Harry Lime,” said Sherlock. “And there’s Martinez across the room. Dr. Calloway?”

“Yes, love,” said John.

“We need to go down to the first level. When I give the signal, you go into the men’s toilet and eavesdrop on Martinez and Lime’s conversation. They will probably say where and when the shipment is going to be delivered.”

“Are you barking? May I remind you, Mrs. Calloway, that your husband is _literally_ a dickless wonder! What am I going to do at the urinal? Whip out the lovely pin cushion you made me?!”

“Use the stall. Hurry! Let’s go down. They’ve both gone in. There’s only one other person in there right now. I want you to pass him as he’s on his way out. And be as quiet as possible. I’ll make sure no one else comes in.”

“Hope you brought bail money because I am about to be arrested.”

“Your best friend is a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, your defacto sister-in-law is _the_ British Government, and you share the bed--and the sitting room--of the world’s only consulting detective. You’re a war hero _and_ a doctor. _You will not be arrested._ Now go!”

Sherlock kissed her hard. John melted.

“Hmm. That lipstick really _is_ quite smudge-proof. Go!”

John took a deep breath and walked toward the Gents. As she pushed the door open, a man brushed past her, coming out. She entered and saw a row of urinals on one wall and sinks and mirrors on the opposite wall. She turned the corner and was surprised to see a very old man sitting on a stool. A tower of folded hand towels were on one side of him and a jar with bills and coins was on the other. He looked as old as Methuselah, in a dark suit that probably fit three decades ago. The seven strands of hair he had left were oiled and slicked back.

The old man seemed to look right through John as if she were a ghost.

“Papí?” A young man’s voice echoed from beyond an arched doorway to one of three stalls.

“ _Ya me voy, m’hijo_. _Un ratito, no más._ ” said the old man. He walked past John and exited the room. A loud _click_ sounded.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” said a second male voice, much deeper than the first. John plastered herself in the corner, inside of the archway. In the mirrors, she could see two sets of dark shoes, facing each other in last stall. Then she saw one man’s knees and heard a zipper being drawn down. Next were a series of wet sounds and grunts. John remained motionless. Finally, the zipper was drawn back up, and the knees disappeared.

“What we got?”

“Two yellow-ears, two African greys, and a pink macaw.”

“What happened to the black cockatoos?”

“Next week.”

“They better be there or you’re going to wish you were back on your knees.” In the mirror, John saw the door to the stall open. She held her breath.

“Here,” the younger man handed the older one something, John couldn’t tell, maybe a small piece of paper, “Better go pick them up right away or…” One man turned back into the stall, grabbing the other by the neck.

_SLAM!_

“ _Don’t tell me how to run my business!_ ”

John took advantage of the noise to sprint for the exit door. As she reached it, the door unlocked.

“What was that?” a voice growled.

The old attendant reappeared. John flew past him. She heard as the door closed:

“ _Papí?_ ”

“ _Sí, m’ijo_?”

John found Sherlock and told her everything that had happened. Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, “We need to move quickly. In which pocket did Martinez put the ticket?”

“Uh, his inside jacket pocket.”

“Good. I’m going to bump into him and switch his coat check ticket with mine…”

“Wait, how do you know it was a coat check ticket?”

Sherlock huffed, “Obvious. We don’t have time for that.” She continued, “Then, I’ll give you the ticket and distract Kurtz from his post. Ask him nicely for a cigarette and take a smoke break with him out the back door. _Don’t look at me like that, Dr. Calloway—it’s for a case!_ When Martinez goes to pick up the coat, he’ll get my stole instead and then be furious. He’ll go find Lime and demand the right ticket. Then you say something to the effect of, ‘Excuse me, I think you dropped this’. Follow him and he’ll get the right coat and then Lestrade’s people will nab him—red-handed. Texted her already.”

“What do you mean red-handed?”

“The birds, my beloved… _are in the coat_.”

“Ah,” said John. “Well, I would like to state for the record that I don’t like it. Number one, smoking is dangerous,” Sherlock rolled her eyes, “number two, that Kurtz could be dangerous if he realizes what you’re up to—he’s involved, love. But I have to say that I am impressed that you called Lestrade for back-up. You never call for back-up.”

“You were gone quite a while,” replied Sherlock.

“Aw. And I was beginning to think you didn’t care, Mrs. Calloway.” She gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek.

“Showtime.”

Sherlock’s plan went off without a hitch. The tickets were switched. Kurtz was lured from the desk by a come-hither glance and the promise of shared nicotine with Sherlock. Martinez was enraged, berating the girl behind the desk for giving him the wrong garment. He stormed off and returned shortly with Lime. John played her part. Martinez took the coat and carefully laid it over his arm. Then, the tiny space was swarming with police officers. Lestrade appeared and cut the coat open. Five drugged—but later it was determined all alive and healthy—birds toppled out just as Kurtz and Sherlock appeared from behind the desk. Kurtz looked wide-eyed at Lime and Martinez who stared daggers back at him but none of the men said anything to each other as Lime and Martinez were led away in handcuffs.

“Thanks for the smoke,” said Sherlock coyly. “Guess I’d better get back to my husband.”

“That bloke’s your husband?”

“Just for tonight,” said Sherlock as she walked over to John. They kissed.

Kurtz gave John an angry glare, but was distracted when a police officer approached him.

Lestrade came over to Sherlock and John as the police officers and on-lookers began to disperse.

“Want to make a statement…?” Lestrade was stifling laughter.

“Not really. I just found that man’s ticket on the floor, is all,” said John, grinning.

“You are…”

“Dr. and Mrs. Calloway,” said John. She curled an arm around Sherlock, who batted her eyelashes theatrically.

“What?” deadpanned Lestrade, “Not Irish?” John and Lestrade fell into giggles.

“Hey!” cried Kurtz, looking suspiciously at John.

“Let’s get out of here,” said John, guiding Sherlock away from the scene. She nodded at Lestrade, who returned the gesture and disappeared.

 

 

“It was a fun little case,” said John as she draped the fur stole around Sherlock’s shoulders. They made their way through the crowd toward the main exit. “Wouldn’t mind retiring ol’ Dr. Calloway and the missus, however.”

“You were good, John,” said Sherlock quietly.

“So were you, love. Brilliant. And beautiful.” They reached the curtain, and the band launched into “Quizás, Quizás, Quizás.” Sherlock stopped.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“When’s the last time we danced?”

“Uh…[after my brother's wedding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1125896/chapters/2269971)?”

“In public?”

John smiled widely. Then, Sherlock did a sort of nervous hopping. John laughed.

“Do you have to pee?”

“No!”

Sherlock nodded back to the dance floor.

“Oh, right! I’m the man. Well, in that case…,”

John turned Sherlock around, and they walked back to the main ballroom.

“You know, three continents is actually an _under_ estimate,” said John as she dropped Sherlock’s fur on a chair.

“Yes, your Spanish—much like your Arabic—has quite the _selective_ vocabulary.”

John held out her hand.

“ _Bailemos, mi reina_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [The Third Man](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0041959/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1949).


	10. Que, cuándo, cómo y dónde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of the club. Dancing + some very public displays of affection.

Those watching Sherlock and John might have been surprised at the grace and ease with which the couple moved across the dance floor. The pair themselves, however, were not. They were well practised in the art of reading each other’s subtle cues, for work _and_ for play, and dancing was a quintessential medium for displaying their expertise. With one hand firmly at Sherlock’s waist and the other clasped in hers, John led them around the floor.

_Estás perdiendo el tiempo_

_Pensando, pensando_

“You were right,” said Sherlock.

“Do tell.”

“About my… _prime directive_. To keep you mine. You have… _options_ : men, women, people who would welcome you as friend…lover…life companion. For me, there’s the Work. And you.” With a slight push of her hand, John turned Sherlock out.

_Por lo que más tú quieras_

_¿Hasta cuándo? ¿Hasta cuándo?_

Sherlock curled back into her.

“There’s no place else I’d rather be, Sherlock, than right here with you.”

_Y así pasan los días_

_Y yo, desesperando_

They kissed.

_Y tú, tú contestando_

_Quizás, quizás, quizás_

The couples on the dance floor stilled and clapped as the music died. Then, brass horns trilled.

 “Ready to really move?” asked John, sliding her hand from Sherlock’s waist to her back.

“Lead on,” said Sherlock, smiling. The salsa beat was quick, but Sherlock and John soon found their rhythm. John spun Sherlock this way and that way; both women grinned as they separated and came back together. The final notes sounded, and John dipped Sherlock and brought her up with a flourish.

 “ _Más?_ ”

“ _Sí, por favor_!”

 They danced on.

 

 

Sweating and panting, John was about to suggest that they take a break when the band launched into a slow ballad. A voice announced:

“We’re going to turn the lights down very low for this one, so hold your partners close. And be careful out there.” 

Darkness descended. John could barely make out the couples around them. Sherlock twisted her arms around John’s neck. Her skin was damp. John carefully steered them toward the far side of the dance floor. One of John’s hands moved back to Sherlock’s waist and the other traveled lower, cupping her buttock. By now, they were barely moving, just swaying together, kissing. 

“ _Oh, Johnny_ ,” sighed Sherlock. 

John smiled. She reached for Sherlock’s thigh and pulled her leg up against her own thigh. With the slit, the fabric of the dress draped, and John snuck her hand under it and gripped Sherlock’s bare buttock. John massaged the flesh with a rough hand.

“ _Yes._ ” Sherlock nuzzled behind John’s ear.

“ _Baby, you feel so good. I want to sink my teeth right here._ ” She squeezed.

Sherlock groaned.

The song ended. As the lights were coming up, Sherlock led John to an empty, secluded corner. John leaned back in a low chair made of rectangle cushions. She undid her bow tie. Sherlock knelt between John’s legs.

 “ _I could make you feel real good, Johnny. If you let me._ ” Sherlock bowed her head and looked up at John through long eyelashes.

“ _I dunno, baby. I am a hard man to please. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself trying_.” John scanned the room, but she was quickly distracted by long, elegant fingers tipped with dark plum coloured nails moving in slow motion down the front of her trousers. Sherlock had barely touched the firm bundle wedged in John’s underpants. Nevertheless, John felt a current of electricity flow through her.

“ _Stroking a man’s cock in public. Bold, baby._ ”

“ _Not half as bold as sucking it_.” Dark-stained lips pressed...

Suddenly, John was blinded by a bright light. As the spots faded, she saw Sherlock being wrenched to her feet by Kurtz. He had a torch in the other hand, raised to strike. Now blinded by rage, John launched herself at the Goliath.

 

 

 

Sherlock rested her head on John’s shoulder. Through the taxi window, they watched the all-too familiar shadows of London pass by.

John felt tenderly around her cheek and eye socket, wincing. She would have to find someone to cover her shift tomorrow at the hospital. Nobody wanted a doctor with an eye bruised shut.

“Sorry about the jacket,” said John. She took it off and examined it. The underside of one sleeve was ripped.

“Nothing that can’t be mended,” said Sherlock, taking the jacket and draping it over John’s lap and legs like a blanket. “How’s the eye?”

“Nothing that can’t be mended.” John half-smiled and then grimaced.

Sherlock put her hand under the jacket and pressed at John’s crotch. She looked at John questioningly. John nodded. An expert hand rubbed, and the warm sweetness in John grew, as Baker Street drew nearer. By the time the taxi stopped, a new set of teeth marks were imprinted on Sherlock’s neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line from the song "Quizás, Quizás, Quizás"


	11. Pensando, pensando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the flat. A surprise and a negotiation.

John sat on the sofa, holding an ice pack to her face. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, Sherlock was standing in front of her. She held a whiskey on ice in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen tablets in the other.

She washed four tablets down with the whiskey.

“Thank you.”

Sherlock grunted.

John heard Sherlock moving around and then go upstairs. When she reappeared, she pulled a chair in front of John and sat.

“John?”

“Hmm?” John opened her eyes.

“I know what you were looking at this morning.”

John stared at her. Suddenly, she was very awake.

“Sherlock! I delete my browser history for a reason!” she cried, turning pink.

“Pointless.”

“I was just…curious. I wouldn’t have…done anything without talking with you.”

“Obviously. That’s why I took the liberty of making a couple of selections myself this afternoon. They are laid out upstairs should you wish to continue _play_.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“But it’s understandable if you don’t,” she indicated John’s eye, “If you want to rest, you’re welcome to sleep downstairs. With me.” Sherlock said it all so matter-of-factly.

“I need to think.”

“Naturally.” Sherlock disappeared.

John got up and began to make tea. When she started, she wasn’t even sure she was going to drink it, but the ritual helped her to sort out her thoughts. In the end, she set a second cup down on the kitchen table.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock appeared and sat down. They both sipped their tea. Save for John’s torn evening jacket, they were both still dressed in their black tie attire.

“Requests?” asked John. Sherlock's eyes lit up.

“Candles. It will keep your face in shadow. Too much visual reminder that you’re injured will be _distracting_.”

John gave a faint smile and nodded. “Limitations?”

“None.”

“Really? This is new, Sherlock…”

Sherlock huffed.

“Okay, okay.”

“How do you want me?” asked Sherlock.

“Stand up. Turn around.” Sherlock stood up and turned around.

“Lose the two-sided tape that’s keeping the top in place and the jewelry and whatever that knicker thing is”—she reached over and, through the dress, plucked at Sherlock’s thong with a _snap!_ —“it’ll only make me laugh. And wear whatever shoes you would really wear with that dress, if you weren’t compensating for the elf-sized Dr. Calloway. I don’t want to see you strain or gag or choke or do anything to make yourself uncomfortable.”

“Done.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining bright, and John felt warm buzz of anticipation.

“I love you.” They kissed chastely.

John found matches and candles and her whiskey glass. “It’ll take me a little while to get situated. I’ll whistle for you,” she said as she climbed the stairs.

“I’ll be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song "Quizás, Quizás, Quizás." John should know better than to drink alcohol and take NSAIDs; it can lead to GI bleeding. Tsk, tsk!


	12. Strap-on sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you for reading!

John whistled as she lit the last candle. A dark Sherlock-shaped silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“Close the door.”

John turned. The room was bathed in warm light and dramatic shadows. John watched Sherlock’s chest rise and fall. The V neck of the dress plunged well below her cleavage. The slit rose to her thigh. The two together created arrows of creamy skin, pointing up and down, against waves of fabric that gleamed almost black in the candlelight. She wore barely-there shoes with tiny straps and a heel that made her positively  _statuesque_.

John nodded. She sat on a plain wooden chair in the centre of the room. She had removed her shoes, socks, and vest and redressed. The bowtie was still undone at her neck; the white shirt was still buttoned, but untucked; the braces still held up black trousers. She slumped back a little in the chair and ran a hand up and down the rubber cock that jutted from her open trousers.

“Johnny, is that a British Army L106A1 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

John laughed.

“Just happy to see you, baby.”

John licked her lips. She reached for the lubricant under the chair and put some on her hand. She stroked the cock slowly as Sherlock traced the edge of the V front of her dress with her fingertips. Sherlock pulled the sides of the dress away and exposed her breasts. John groaned.

“Wanna taste?” asked Sherlock. She cupped her breasts and rubbed her nipples with her fingers.

“Always, but if I start, I won’t stop. And I wanna see more.” Sherlock ran her hands up her neck and twisted her hair. John pointed to the top of the dresser, and Sherlock took the hair clip and secured her hair. She went back to the doorway.

“That’s right. Tie that hair up. You’re going to be working tonight.”

“Making you feel good.”

“Making me feel _very_ good. Show me your shoes.” John patted the top of her thigh. Sherlock walked over and put one foot on John’s thigh. John caressed Sherlock’s bent leg from toe to hip, kissing the skin that she could reach. The pointy heel dug into John’s leg. Sherlock moaned, and John reached a hand out to steady her. She slid the other hand under Sherlock’s dress.

“No knickers? _Naughty girl._ What are you doing running around town, flashing your bits about, huh? Who’ve you been with?” said John in mock anger.

“Nobody, Johnny,” Sherlock stammered. “They were just… _wet_.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” John tapped Sherlock’s leg, and Sherlock lowered it. John jerked Sherlock by the arm and shoved her onto the bed on her back. She pulled Sherlock's hips to the edge of the bed and knelt between her legs. She pushed the dress aside and spread Sherlock’s thighs.

“I taste anyone but me, and I’ll beat you within an inch of your life, baby.” She bent and thrust her tongue into Sherlock’s cunt.

“Johnny!” cried Sherlock, holding John’s head to her. John probed ruthlessly with her tongue—only pausing to lick her outer folds—until her jaw ached and Sherlock writhed.

“You’ve been good, baby.” John wiped her face against Sherlock’s leg.

“So good, Johnny.”

“We’re just getting started.”

“I want to… _suck_ you.”

“Mmm-hmm. Figured you would, tarty little thing.” John planted a kiss on Sherlock’s inner thigh.

John stood up, pulling Sherlock with her. Sherlock dropped to her knees. The hardwood floor could not be comfortable. John looked at the pillows on the bed.

“No,” said Sherlock. John looked down and saw Sherlock looking up at her. _Sherlock_ , not a character they’d created from their mutual fantasy, but the world’s only consulting detective, her lover, her friend, her partner in anything that mattered.

“Get back to work,” said John gently. Sherlock smiled. She licked along the cock, holding it, then took the tip in her mouth. She sucked eagerly.

“Show me one of those pretty tits.”

The front of Sherlock’s dress had shifted. Sherlock kept one hand on John’s cock, her mouth still bobbing, and pushed aside one half of the V front with the other. She toyed with the nipple.

“ _Holy! Fuck!_ ” The erotic scene at John’s feet whited out her rationale mind. “This should be illegal,” she muttered as her knees threatened to buckle.

“Gonna sit down.” John took the chair and moved it to the far side of the room. She sat facing Sherlock, knees splayed wide. Sherlock grinned and waited.

“Crawl for me, baby,” crooned John.

Sherlock crawled on all fours, breast swinging, dress trailing behind her. Sherlock could not be as far gone as John herself was, however, because she had the forethought to pick up the bottle of lubricant along her path. Sherlock set it under the chair and knelt between John’s legs. She licked up and down John’s shaft and sucked the tip. John laced her fingers behind her own head and watched.

Sherlock hummed and pulled off.

“ _Love sucking your cock, Johnny_.”

“ _Yeah?_ ” It was all that John could manage.

“ _Making you hard, makes me wet_.” She looked up through long lashes and gave the cock a lascivious lick of her tongue.

“ _Holy Fuck!_ ” John closed her eyes. But when she opened them, Sherlock was swallowing more and more of the cock.

“C’me here,” John said. She reached under the chair for the lubricant. Sherlock climbed onto the one side of her lap. John squeezed some lubricant into Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock circled the cock, pumping it.

“Gimme that taste. Don’t be stingy,” John growled. Sherlock cupped her breast and offered it to John, who circled the dark rose tip with her nose and sucked. Sherlock held John’s head at her chest, never stopping the strokes to the cock.

“ _Johnny_ ,” she pleaded.

John plucked frustratedly at voluminous folds of Sherlock’s dress, but managed to slide a hand under the fabric and grab her arse with a satisfied grunt. John squeezed with her hand and sucked with her mouth until Sherlock was rutting against her thigh. Sherlock twisted; John took the other breast in her mouth. Sherlock abandoned the cock, cupping John’s head with two hands, pressing John to her.

“I was such a good girl for you, Johnny. _Oh, oh!_ ” John scraped her teeth across Sherlock’s nipple.

“How’s that?” John licked the valley between Sherlock’s breasts. She slipped her other hand under Sherlock’s dress and guided her hips with a strong grip.

Sherlock sat back and took the bow tie from John’s collar. She made a show of rubbing it back and forth along her lips and tossing it on the floor.

“I _cleaned myself_ real good for you, Johnny.” Sherlock whispered. All movement stopped.

“ _Holy! Fuck!_ ” John answered with her own whisper. She hung her head, her forehead resting against Sherlock’s clavicle, and took a deep breath. She did not see the triumphant grin Sherlock threw at the ceiling.

“Stand. Strip.”

Sherlock stood up and undid the halter at her neck. The fabric fell forward. She unzipped the dress at the waist, and the entire garment pooled on the floor. John unbuttoned her shirt and pulled the sides apart. She made a circle motion with her finger. Sherlock turned, facing away. She bent down and John leaned up, purposefully brushing her breasts against Sherlock’s arse.

“ _Baby girl_ ,” croaked John. The angles were wrong. Sherlock was too tall; John was too short; and the chair and the stilettos weren’t helping. John stood up, tossed the lube on the bed, and roared.

“On! The! Bed!”

“Johnny?”

_SMACK!_

“ _Hands and knees! Now!_ ”

Sherlock stumbled briefly on the pooled fabric of the dress as she walked toward the bed. She climbed onto it, and John moved behind her, kissing and licking and sinking her teeth into the meatiest part of each buttock. Then, she resumed rubbing her breasts against Sherlock’s arse. She had not minded wearing the compression vest, but the sensation that resulted from removing it—a singular feeling of being unbound—was _exquisite._ She chased it, grinding into Sherlock frantically with her chest. Her breathing grew ragged, and she could hear herself keening loudly. The absurd notion that she might actually climax from this particular act floated like a distant cloud on the horizon of her mind, but suddenly, the cock caught on the bedding. The harness bit into her skin, and she was jolted back into the scene. Back to Sherlock. She stopped abruptly and sat back on her heels, dazed and panting.

Sherlock whipped around. She looked feral, with her hair falling around her shoulders in tangles and savage desire painted on her face. John gave her lover a helpless little shrug. The entire English language—and smatterings of other languages—failed her. Sherlock’s lustful stare melted into a sweet smile.

“Johnny?” she asked tentatively.

“Got a little carried away, princess.” John guided Sherlock back onto her hands and knees and knelt behind her again.

“I seem to recall…” John kissed down Sherlock’s lower spine to her cleft.

“…that you went to some effort…”

John spread her cheeks and continued kissing.

“…to ready yourself for _this_.”

John licked her rim. Sherlock gave a soft cry and pushed back into John’s mouth. As she licked, John made loud, pornographic slurping noises. Sherlock grunted.

“ _Filthy girl_ ,” said John, stopping to knead and bite Sherlock’s round flesh. “Wanting Johnny’s tongue in your arse like that. Play with yourself while Johnny fucks this pretty hole.” Sherlock’s hand flew to her clit.

“Your filthy girl wants it so bad, Johnny. Please, please, a little more, _please_ ,” begged Sherlock. With each swipe, John buried her tongue a little deeper. When her face was flush with Sherlock's body, she wiggled her tongue inside. Sherlock whimpered and collapsed flat on the bed.

John pulled up one of Sherlock’s knees and applied lubricant to the cock. She circled Sherlock’s cunt with the tip.

“ _Oh!_ ”

“You’re gonna take Johnny’s cock, baby.” Sherlock raised the knee higher.

“Oh, I dunno, Johnny, it’s so _big_ ,” said Sherlock in a breathy tone. John’s eyes widened, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. She leaned up and sang in Sherlock’s ear.

“ _El puntito, no más, querida_.” She guided the tip of the cock into Sherlock and stilled. “Just the tip, baby.” She ran a hand up and down Sherlock’s lower back.

“Oh! That’s… _nice_. Maybe…maybe a little more, Johnny.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to almost laugh; she hid her face in the duvet. John pushed in slowly.

“Oh, that’s it. You’re taking all of it, like a good girl.” John pulled Sherlock back up to her knees, and the cock slid out. Sherlock whimpered.

“Gonna fuck you hard, sweetness.” John kissed Sherlock’s back.

“Please.” John watched the cock glide in and out of Sherlock’s cunt as she thrust forwards and Sherlock pushed backwards. When they found their rhythm, John teased Sherlock’s arsehole with a lubed little finger while Sherlock bounced.

“ _Johnny!_ ”

“ _Come for me, baby_.”

Sherlock snuck a hand between her legs. Unbalanced, she and John collapsed on their sides together. The cock slipped out, and John put her hand under Sherlock’s, rubbing Sherlock's clit until she arched and came.

“ _John!_ ”

John rolled away from Sherlock once her lover’s breathing slowed. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, thinking. Her shirt and trousers were hopelessly rumpled. She unhooked the harness, pulled it off, and dropped the whole apparatus on the floor. Her eye began to throb. She got up, fastening her trousers and shirt carelessly. She found and threw back the watery remains of the whiskey. Sherlock sat up.

“John? What’s wrong?”

“Gonna get a shower, call the hospital. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You've forgotten one thing—me.”

John smiled. “What's wrong with you?

“Nothing you can't fix.” John walked back to the bed and pressed a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock whispered, “You’re a good man, sister” as the bedroom door closed quietly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final exchange between Sherlock and John comes from [_The Big Sleep_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0038355/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1946) and Sherlock's last line come from [_The Maltese Falcon_](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0033870/?ref_=ttqt_qt_tt) (1941).


End file.
